The Ambulance Ride
by ILoveJorja
Summary: Does insomnia lead to insanity?  Can it kill you?  Sara might just find out.
1. Chapter 1

**The Ambulance Ride**

**A/N:** How long has it been? Since I hit a keystroke and saved it in a file? Since I even tried? Since I opened a blank page and watched the cursor blink? Too long. Time to try again. Hope you like. This was inspired by my first-ever ambulance ride recently. It's in first person present, which I've never tried before, so tell me if it's confusing. This fic is going to be thoughts inside Sara's head with thoughts inside those...welcome to the inside of _my_ head! (Like I have to explain. You're all smart enough to read fan fiction and write reviews, right? Right? LOL.)

Rated: T. GSR.

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I can't sleep. Not all that unusual. But this has been going on for, what, four weeks? Five? See, lack of sleep affects memory. So how am I supposed to remember how long I have lacked a good night's rest? Scratch that. I would settle for an hour. One blessed hour out of 24, out of 48, out of a week...just one hour of sleep. But I can't sleep.

I'm Sara Sidle. I'm known for being an insomniac. There are day shift people I've met once who immediately ask how long I can go without sleep. _There's probably a wager going. Huh. Maybe I could get in on that._

It's practically my middle name. Sara the Insomniac Sidle. That dark-haired girl who stays up for three days. Like I heard Grissom had said about me when he gave Warrick the shift because he had to go race cockroaches. Warrick the Screwup Brown. Instead of Sara the Conscientious. The Workaholic. Warrick is _still_ his favorite CSI. Just because he's attracted to me (like he'd ever admit it) he can't trust me to run one damn shift? _If I wanted someone to stay up for three days I'd ask Sara._ That's what he said. At least he hasn't given Warrick the shift since. Guess that counts for something. But he hasn't asked me, either.

Speak of the devil and he appears. Uh oh. Here comes Grissom. I can tell he's nervous because his wrists are bent and the palms flat, sticking out. I can tell his knees hurt because his peculiar bowlegged walk is even more pronounced. I can tell so much by one glance at Grissom... Why can't I tell him how I feel?

I have to wait. Wait one more day, one more year, until I can wear him down like water wears down rock. I can tell he doesn't want to lecture me, but he's a good boss and has to. He's going to try to send me home–but I have no real home. Just a box with four walls with an empty bed that is like a torture rack to me. A flat surface with sheets and blankets..._What if you hear the victim's screams? In the store, under the blanket..._I asked him to sleep with me then. What a face he made. Practically choked on that yogurt! Hee hee.

What's my home like? It's an apartment that echoes with silence. A bed that represents a slow ticking clock. Life is short, they say, but some days–-some nights- it's too damn long. I close my eyes and I know it will be futile hours of trying to get comfortable, trying to find a position that supports my head just so. Find a way to place my limbs that will allow me to become unconscious. How strange is it? That we need, as animals, to become unconscious on a regular basis? That we become so vulnerable...wait, he's talking...

"Sara..."

He's got that tone in his voice. The one that makes me want to smack him. The I-know-better-than-you-why-don't-you-just-listen-and-just-obey tone of voice. I glare at him instead. His face is impassive.

"Shift is over..."

Yeah, like I didn't know that.

I clear my throat. Why is my mouth so dry? Oh, yeah. Because it's Grissom. My voice creaks. "Hot case." I'm trying to keep the leave-me-alone message clear without being disrespectful. Because he's Grissom.

"They're all hot cases if you let them..."

"I know that."

"You..."

"I don't need a lecture, Grissom. Here, take a look," and that is the end of that. We're talking evidence and are friends and colleagues again, and so it's okay that I'm not going home now. I don't have to try to sleep. Yet. To lie there and wait for the hours to pass. Christ I wish I could sleep.

"How long has it been since you slept, Grissom?" I say gently, lovingly, softly, under my breath. I say it to the back of his curly-haired head as he peers down a scope. I don't think he heard me. Or maybe he's ignoring me again, the better to focus on that tiny blue fiber.

"Want some coffee?" I say louder, clearer. He grunts. I guess that means yes. I slip away. It's hard to put one foot in front of the other. Without pitching forward on to my face. It's tough to just keep one thought in my mind...go get coffee, two of them...he likes it black with two sugars...hope he notices I noticed...I'm pathetic. Think about the case, Sara. Focus. The way to Grissom's heart is through his mind. That's pretty good. I like that. Love me, love my mind.

Meeting of the minds. Hello, Grissom's mind. Nice to meetcha. I'm Sara Sidle. I don't sleep.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**THE AMBULANCE RIDE**

**Chapter Two**

Does insomnia lead to insanity? Can it kill you? Sara might just find out From inside Sara's head. Rated: T. GSR.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! They were thoughtful and encouraging. Okay, time to plug my website. It's called CSI Forever Online and it's on wetpaint. We've only been in existence for 2 months but have come very far very fast. 74 members, with the majority active almost every day, doing some fine creative work with lots of creative freedom. It's a great little place to hang out. Very FF writer and reader friendly. Games, news, episodes, cast pages, you name it. Come join us! I love it. You probably will too.

Ugh, that last cup of coffee was a mistake. My nerves are jangling. Strange word, jangling. But it fits. I can feel every branch and twig of my nervous system, with electricity burning down to my trembling fingers. Grissom is staring at my hands. If I'm very very focused, I can make that tremor stop. Ugh, now there's a tic under my eye. Too much caffeine. Muscles are clenched. The worst is my belly. Sour and burning. It's too quiet in here, and I feel a very unladylike belch coming. Whatever will he think of me?

I remember a case from my first year, the Collins case, a whole family slaughtered in their beds except for the two girls. I was home, trying to sleep, when the police scanner announced it. I got there just as a new guy taking notes turned green and had to run outside and puke. Grissom looked at me. I told him I figured he needed help. "You don't sleep, do you?" I shook my head and got to work. There was a touch of admiration in his voice. He liked my dedication. So I've been trying ever since to make him notice me, get his approval, by staying late and arriving early, working harder than anyone else. Be the best little CSI ever.

Ecklie sees me still in the lab at noon and scowls. Overtime comes out of the budget. He shoos me out of the lab. I go home. I lie down again. This time it's like a video channel starts up in my head. A constant stream of images, snatches of conversation, fragments of music, TV commercials stream unbidden. Speeded up, so fast, so fast. Do I hear voices? No, I don't hear voices exactly. (I am not my mother. I am not schizophrenic.)

It's like I'm plugged into something. I see bits of movies and real life._ Sara. I don't know what to do about this. I do_. Humiliation. Kick me in the gut, why don't you? Lou Grant: "You've got spunk. I hate spunk." Mary Tyler Moore tosses her hat into the air. The ocean at first light, when I was a little girl. That smell of iodine and fish and salt air. There's a little blonde girl making a sandcastle. Could I go over and ask her to be friends? Who's that girl? (Eurythmics) Terri Miller has blonde hair. Does Grissom like blondes? Blondes have more fun. Marilyn Monroe slinks down a staircase lined with men in tuxedos. Diamonds are a girl's best friend. Girls just wanna have fun, wanna, wanna have fun. (Cyndi Lauper.) The body of a girl sprawled across a bloody bed. She's been tied and raped with a foreign object and strangled. Ligature marks on her wrists. _Dammit. He did it again. _I turned and went back out into the hallway. Nick gazed at me, his dark eyes soft, from inside the room. Grissom followed me_. _He barked at me. _Sara! No emotions in here. _ He grabbed my arm.

My father's face staring at my mother, spoiling for a fight. My mother's face when her eye was swollen and black, the eye socket broken, nose broken, and lips split. I watch Grissom stride by, his nose in a file. I will him to look up, to look at me, but nothing. Look at me! He doesn't see me. "If it makes you feel good..." (Sheryl Crow.) _I wish I was like you, Grissom. I wish I didn't feel anything._ I see Dave looking up at me, blinking owlishly. "Time of death was approximately four hours..." The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup! Really? That's the BEST part?

_If you try to chase two rabbits, you end up losing them both._ What the hell does that mean, anyway? I'm chasing one rabbit, the sick freak who raped and shot this poor woman and left her for dead, then dropped his ballcap on her as a trophy. Too tough to die. Grissom and his damn riddles. _Sara. What do you do for fun? I chase rabbits. What do you like? I don't like anything!_ What do you want from me, Grissom? To not care?

There's Doc Robbins, calmly explaining his findings, bathed in blue light. The fragile blue of twilight, when you see the first star. Every TV show ever aired streams out into space. If another life form ever saw it, what would they think? I'm blue, so blue, blue moon...blue highway, blue jacket, bluebonnet, blue eyed boy (Grissom). Now I'm playing mental word games. This is hopeless.

My muscles are in full spasm. Every single one is balled up and tight. _Body just coming out of rigor_...I lie on my bed, stiff as a plank of wood. I hurt. Everything hurts. I might as well be lying on a bed of nails. Screw it. I stagger out of bed and fill the bathtub with the hottest water I can stand. It stings and makes my skin red, but then it feels good, it helps, just a little. I let the water cover my head, my face, and remember a painting of Ophelia by...Burnes-Jones, I think it was...she is lying face up in a stream, completely under water, flowers on her brown dress, a circlet of flowers in her hair, flowers in her hands (violets, those are for remembrance..) and waiting to drown. Ophelia went mad. Is it possible to drown myself in a bathtub? Just open my mouth and suck in a lungful of water? Am I going mad? Do I want to die?

I shave my legs carefully. I wash and condition my hair. I get out of the tub. I slather my body with lotion. If I'm going crazy, I might as well smell good, I think, and snort a laugh. I might as well have soft skin. I put on a bathrobe and wrap my hair in a towel and wander into the kitchen. I have a look in the fridge. My stomach twists at the thought of food. So I start another pot of coffee, get the newspaper from just outside the door and sit at the counter. Sexual assault, natural disaster, the obituaries, Dear Abby has lost her damn mind, that's the worst advice I ever heard, bombs and casualties...the funnies aren't funny but I study them like they hold deep secrets. I look at every page but couldn't tell you half of what I read. I flip on the TV to pass the time, but turn it off again. I sneak a look at the clock. Shift starts in...three hours. If I dress slowly, and drive slowly, no one will care if I'm early.

Maybe Grissom will be early too. I'll walk past his office. Seeing him behind his desk makes the world seem sane. God's in his heaven, Grissom's here. Seeing Grissom both soothes and arouses my heart. Hearing his deep voice is balm for my troubled soul.

I'm wide awake. Until I get behind the wheel of my Prius, that is. Suddenly I'm sleepy as hell. I'm weaving from side to side of the road. My eyes are starting to close. They're dry and scratchy. I just want to close my eyes. I pinch my legs, bite my lip and the inside of my cheek, and the pain is enough to get me to the lab parking lot. I pull into a spot away from the others, facing away from the glass doors, and put the seat back. Maybe I can catch forty winks. I lean back and will my body to relax, will my mind to clear and go blank...but my head lolls and hits the window, I'm tense, and my stomach hurts. That coffee went right through me...I need to get to the ladies' room. I hurry through the entrance, Judy calls out to me, I brush past the desk and her face falls. Sorry! I better go back after...and I bang into the restroom.

Five minutes later I go back to the receptionist's desk and give her a tight smile. I can't seem to smile naturally anymore. My face is impassive. (Maybe I'm around Grissom too much.)

Judy's on the phone and scribbling a complicated message. I stand there, feeling like a goof, until she acknowledges me coolly. Her phone rings again and I turn and go to the locker room. I lay my forehead against the cold metal. My head feels like a hardboiled egg. The shell is cracked. I'm holding it together by force of will, habit, and adrenaline. Robotically, I stow my bag, get my ID and handgun and clip them to my belt, put on my black mesh vest, change my street shoes to boots. And sit there on the wood bench, staring into space. I don't know how long. I don't know what I was thinking about. Until the fog clears briefly and I remember to go to the evidence locker and get the latest box.

I spread the evidence out neatly in precise little rows. I open the file and read it from beginning to end. The words vanish from the page after I look at them. I don't know what I just read. So I go back to the beginning and read it again. I can't think. I don't know who did this. I don't have a clue. Or a lead, or a theory. This poor guy. He rolled the dice and lost when I got this case. Maybe Nick will help me, or Warrick. I put everything away again tidily and go to the break room for assignments. And make more coffee.

Grissom gives me a solo case miles away. I get my kit and climb into a Denali. As soon as I pull out, the sleepiness returns. I blast the air conditioning, crank up the radio, shift around in my seat but it's really hard to drive through this darkness. The light turns red and my mind says stop! but my foot makes the SUV go right through it. Tires squeal, a horn honks, I plow on. I see headlights in my rearview mirror. He's too close! Why is he following me? I turn right, he follows, I speed up, he does too. Who is this guy? Finally I lose him at another stoplight and draw a breath. What the hell is wrong with me? No one can drive behind me? I merge onto a highway without even looking, braking just in time before I get flattened by a tractor-trailer going at least 80. I'm gonna get killed out here...should I pull over? And tell Grissom what? I couldn't make it to my scene because I was tired. I should slow down. I speed up instead.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**THE AMBULANCE RIDE**

**Chapter Three**

By the grace of God and the strong pectorals of my flock of guardian angels...I know ( I've seen them!) I made it to the scene. A big sigh of relief puffs the cold black air. I puff out again, entertaining myself briefly, before tugging a forelock to the master. I do your bidding , Grissom. Should I wear a French maid's uniform? To make the arrangement clearer? Hmm. Halloween is coming up...might just give that costume a twirl. Or a lady pirate. Always been a fantasy of mine! Do we have that in common as well? We do, you know. Have a lot in common. Lost our fathers young. Grew up fast. Found ourselves in science. Lab coats and latex. Books, not boyfriends or girls. Some would say we were meant for each other. The majority, even. But will you even entertain the thought? Ever? This century? Aggravating man.

Another lonely DB. Out in the blackness of night, bathed in blood and moonlight. Have you ever seen blood in the moonlight, Will? It's quite black. I crouch in a familiar pose, my knees protesting. CSIs ruin their knees. Ask Grissom. But, wait, that's a congenital condition. Bowleggedness...torsion something or other... I can't remember.

Focus. Sidle.

Pipe down!

I can't think with all you voices in my head!

Oh shit. Do I hear voices? Am I demented? Or just strung out? How can an insane mind diagnose an insane mind? How can the cracked shell criticize the cracked bowl? In a city of fools, none stand out. Fool. Fool for love. Pro in every other way. Don't you see me, Grissom? How obvious do I have to be? Greg knows. Brass too. Catherine has her cheerleader outfit on...egging you to score. Nick would be delighted. Dave would feel a pang but he was too bashful to get this girl. My heart was already taken. You do get a C for cute, though.

My fingers twirl the fingerprint brush. I'll let them take over. This is going to be one well dusted crime scene. Even if it looks like a straight up suicide. Finally I stand wearily, crack my back, crack my neck (twice) pack up and stow it away, I realize I am starving. How long has it been since I had solid food? Do I think I can remember? Nah.

First diner I see, I vow. I'm running on fumes. Something to soothe this stomach ache too. Like a kick to a sore belly. Really hurts. A few truck drivers droop over the counter where I decide to rest. The light is un unflattering flourescent light, but I'm not gonna be choosy. Something smells good. I peruse the menu. It's one of those glossy platters of meat and potatoes in vivid color. You know, that's kind of equal opportunity if you think about it. You can be mute, or speak a foreign language or just be shy, and still be able to order something recognizable.

I get a platter of home fries, some apple juice, water and toast. This should help. Steady these ragged nerves, I hope. Frayed like a cuff. Cuff. Handcuff. Ruff. Muff. My wandering mind takes a stroll. The plate is shoved in my direction. It's hot, not much to taste but grease and cardboard...so I give the salt shaker a shake. The cap comes off! A big pile of salt all over those hashed brown hot potatoes. Shit. Very funny, asshole, you'll get yours. I can't help it. I'm too hungry to wait. I try nibbling around the edges. I break the yolks and between that and the jelly, I've made a right mess of my plate. I'm sticky and hungry as a junkyard dog. I'm going to skip the niceties. I wave the waitress over and explain. She trots off for a new plate. This one is even blander than the first but it's hot and it's here and I devour it. Heartburn ignites my breastbone. Oh shit. This is not a happy camper.

On auto pilot, I return to the lab. I walk like a good soldier to evidence and fingerprint labs (better avoid Mandy for a while, 250 print lifts and not a sign of anyone else in the room?) and then to the office of the man who holds my heart.

TBC


End file.
